


SCP-1383: The Carapace

by lucky_spike



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aliens, F/M, SCP project
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Item #: SCP-1383</p><p>Object Class: Euclid</p><p>Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1383 is to be lightly heavily sedated at all times, predominantly for the safety of all D-class personnel in contact with him. He is to be kept in a bare cell, measuring 1.8m x 1.8m. A bed and chair are permissible, provided they are made out of titanium, or some other similarly strong material. A mattress is permissible. The door should be of the same material, and there should be two guards posted outside of the door at all times. These guards should not carry blades on their person. There should not be an open window in the cell door. A piano is permissible in the cell, as SCP-1383 does not attempt to use it aggressively, and playing it seems to have a calming effect on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for fun - hope everyone enjoys!

 

##  **Prologue**

  
  
Item #: SCP-1383  
  
Object Class: Euclid  
  
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-1383 is to be ~~lightly~~ heavily sedated at all times, predominantly for the safety of all D-class personnel in contact with him. He is to be kept in a bare cell, measuring 1.8m x 1.8m. A bed and chair are permissible, provided they are made out of titanium, or some other similarly strong material. A mattress is permissible. The door should be of the same material, and there should be two guards posted outside of the door at all times. These guards should not carry blades on their person. There should not be an open window in the cell door. A piano is permissible in the cell, as SCP-1383 does not attempt to use it aggressively, and playing it seems to have a calming effect on him.  
  
SCP-1383 is to be sedated for all medical procedures, and his hands are to be restrained throughout. Any and all bladed pieces of equipment are to be stored well away from him for the duration of any procedures; security personnel should be present during procedures to remove any weapons from his possession, if necessary.  
  
SCP-1383 should be fitted with a mouth guard at all times when removed from his cell. This should not be removed for any reason, with the exception of dental procedures. SCP-1383 should be heavily sedated for any procedure in which removal of the mouth guard is warranted.  
  
If properly restrained, SCP-1383 can tentatively be considered ‘Safe’. Regardless, all interactions should be carried out using the same caution dictated by his Euclid classification. Two guards should be present at all interviews.  
  
SCP-1383 is to be fed meats, milk, and black licorice, as those seem to be the only things he eats. To date, all requests for alcohol made by SCP-1383 have been denied. SCP-1383 is not to be provided with utensils for meals, and milk should be served in paper cups.  
  
Description: SCP-1383 is a male humanoid of unknown species, self-reported as ‘carapace’. His age is unknown. SCP-1383 stands roughly 152 cm high, and weighs 64 kg. His body - such as it remains - is covered by a black, chitinous carapace roughly 2 cm thick.  
  
Roughly 86% of SCP-1383’s body is no longer biological in origin; it appears to have been fused on following some form of trauma, to replace the original parts, and is made of sophisticated robotics. The exact mechanism by which these robotics function is not understood; for all intents and purposes, SCP-1383’s body ends mid-abdomen, yet he has functional legs. Sensation in these limbs is reportedly dulled. The robotic parts of SCP-1383 include: legs, lower abdomen and groin, arms, left chest wall and organs therein, and brain case. His left eye is non-functional; the surface of the eye is malformed, and obscured by what appears to be a thick cataract, although the entire eye appears to be of the same white construction. The eyelid has lost significant muscle tonicity, and droops closed; the subject is not able to open the eye without using his hands. There is a long, vertical scar across the eye. His right eye is robotic, and directly wired into the mechanism that allows the brain to communicate with the remainder of the robotic parts. There is no discernible power source for the robotics, however they are remarkably fast, and capable of above-average feats of strength. As such, SCP-1383 should be restrained with the proper equipment, sedated, and handled with caution at all times.  
  
SCP-1383 has 26 teeth in his upper jaw, and 26 in his lower jaw. These teeth are serrated, pointed, and interlock when he closes his mouth. Teeth can be extracted, and will grow back in three days, on average, though X-rays reveal that there are not young teeth prepared to erupt, such as in sharks. Mucosa are grey and moist; this appears to be the baseline.  
  
SCP-1383 was brought to the Foundation’s attention on April, ██, 20 ██ , in ███████, Oregon, when the local police department received a report of a knife-wielding man in a costume. Five (5) officers were stabbed to death during attempts to restrain him; ultimately, a Foundation Mobile Task Force member and a SWAT team were able to tranquilize and restrain him.  
  
From earliest observation, SCP-1383’s alien biology was apparent. Exploratory surgery was performed several times, but proved largely unfruitful due to the overwhelming amount of robotics involved in SCP-1383. From what surgery was done, it was ascertained that SCP-1383 has a similar biological makeup to humans, with the exception of the thin, membranous skin that adheres to the thick, chitinous outer carapace with a corium layer, not unlike what is observed in the common horse hoof.  
  
SCP-1383 is both capable of and knowledgeable of human speech; he appears to speak a form of American English that dates to the 1920s, and is interspersed liberally with profanity. He cannot explain how he knows this, and insists that it is “in my fuckin’ programming”.  
  
SCP-1383 has several abilities which are not yet well-understood: he is capable of voluntarily “flipping his sprite”, and effectively reversing his entire physiology to its mirror. Any injuries sustained will also flip: if an injury is sustained to the right chest wall, and he “flips his sprite”, the injuries will appear on the left chest wall, but will remain otherwise unchanged. It should be noted that he prefers a left-oriented configuration, however, as that provides him with a robotic heart, which seems to be more capable of supplying the necessary coolant and power to his robotic limbs.  
  
SCP-1383 also possess the ability to “double” objects. This is an ability in which, when provided with an object (typically, and preferably, a blade), SCP-1383 is able to turn that object into a card. Cards will always be standard playing cards in the spades suit. SCP-1383 is then able to double the object back-and-forth, from card to object, as he pleases. Tests performed by D-class personnel have shown that this ability is exclusive to SCP-1383, even after the object has been demonstrably doubled. It should be noted that any cards carried by SCP-1383 should be treated with caution: as of yet, there is no reliable way to ascertain what the card’s double is, or whether it even has one.  
  
It is the Foundation’s opinion that as of this time, further study and observation of SCP-1383 are warranted. Doubling abilities, sprite flipping, and biorobotics are not well understood, and could be of benefit. Biological or robotic research must be approved by O5- █ , ~~but interviews with SCP-1383 are unlimited to any D-class personnel, provided SCP-1383 is contained within his cell~~ . SCP-1383 is to be kept in complete isolation, with the exception of approved personnel.  
  
Origin: SCP-1383 states to be from a moon in “the Furthest Ring”. The moon is called “Derse,” and orbits a planet called “Skaia,” along with a twin moon, “Prospit.” These celestial bodies are reported constructions of a game which acts on reality and space-time, and are created when players begin a game session. SCP-1383 states he was a high-ranking government official on Derse before the game began, and thus was considered an “NPC” in the game.  
  
Per SCP-1383, the game he was created to be a part of ended badly, with a “glitched” session. Only through the forcible merging of his session and three others, was a winnable game session created. This was accomplished through the ending of all but one session; a task which requires complete destruction of the universe. SCP-1383 claims to have ended his own universe by “shooting that bitch in the fucking heart like she deserved.”  
  
SCP-1383 claims that this universe - in which the Foundation exists - was created after the players of all four sessions, as well as a collection of NPCs, managed to obtain victory against a time-travelling demon, an omnipotent canine version of himself, and an alien fish queen. SCP-1383 states that the victors created this universe with the intention of all victors being able to continue on together, however something went wrong with the process.  
  
< Begin Log >  
  
Dr. ██████ : Okay, please state for the record what you believe went wrong with the process of entering the new universe.  
  
SCP-1383 : Everythin’ seemed fine; the door got created, no one sliced through it, no stupid time bullshit happened. The kids agreed that everyone that went through the fuckin’ door would end up bein’ the same species or some shit; like the human kids, I guess, ‘cause of some blood color bullshit that the troll kids were all huffed up about.  
  
Dr. ██████ : And that wasn’t the case?  
  
SCP-1383 : It was, for everyone else. I’m the only one that didn’ get to go all fuckin’ squishy and damp. Seemed like I got the better end of the damn deal, until you assholes showed up.  
  
Dr. ██████ : Were you in contact with anyone else that was present in this game session?  
  
SCP-1383 : Yeah, I was <DATA EXPUNGED>.  
  
< End Log >

* * *

  
  
Addendum 1383-00: SCP-1383 has requested permission to contact “his kid” in Oregon via tele phone. (Permission denied)  
  
Addendum 1383-01: “Kid” in Oregon investigated by Foundation Mobile Task Force. Appears to be unremarkable 14 year-old boy, no possible relation. Investigation discontinued.  
  
Addendum 1383-02: Several of SCP-1383’s digital files have been compromised by an unknown source. The computer used to access the files is untraceable, and to date no evidence has been found as to who gained access to the files. SCP-1383 moved to a new detainment facility. It is advised that any future digital record-keeping on SCP-1383 be heavily secured.  
  
Addendum 1383-03: SCP-1383 apparently used his teeth to sharpen his toothbrush to a point, and stabbed two D-class personnel to death while en route to the surgical suite. He was heavily tranquilized and returned to his cell, where he will remain under heavy sedation indefinitely. Exploratory surgery has been postponed until he is more evenly sedated.  
  
Addendum 1383-04: All digital files pertaining to SCP-1383 have been hacked and downloaded to a remote location, which as of yet has proven untraceable. SCP-1383 moved to another detainment facility. Henceforth, all files on SCP-1383 are to be maintained in non-digital format; any digital information recorded on SCP-1383 is to be stored on devices which have no access to any form of internet or digital communication. Digital information found on SCP-1383 is to be traced and wiped. Investigations into the breach are ongoing.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Oregon_ **   
  
The basement was lit by a single lightbulb. Or it had been, anyway, when the house was built. But sometime, in the somewhat recent past, its chief light source had changed from the lone bulb to a veritable bank of computer monitors, their soft glow filtering through the dark, casting a blue-white glow on the faces of the four children gathered in front of the main screen.   
  
One girl was positioned closer to the monitors, her thin fingers prodding gently at the keyboard here and there. “It’s almost done,” she murmured, voice low. “Just a couple more flies.” She hiccuped. “I mean files.”   
  
“You’re getting them?” another boy - dark, disheveled hair sticking out every which way - asked. “Are they corrupted or whatever?”   
  
“They’ll be encrypted,” the girl replied with a nod. “Maybe even in code.”   
  
“Which,” the blonde boy behind them said, with a gentle Texas lilt, “oughtn’t be any kind of problem.”   
  
They watched the data scroll on the screen in reverent silence. 95%, 96% … it was further than they’d got the last time, certainly, but not enough. Not if they wanted the best odds. The boy with the flyaway hair grunted, and put his head in his hands. “If it’s not enough … we already know they’re gonna fucking move him again.”   
  
The fourth kid, a boy - silent thus far - reached out and put his hand on his compatriot’s shoulder. “It’ll be enough.” He smiled; it wasn’t his usual bright grin, but it was meant to be comforting, in a quiet sort of way. The disheveled boy just glared at him. “Come on, dude, we beat a lot worse than these goons. We’ll get him back.”   
  
The boy snorted. “Even if we get him back, though, how’re we gonna hide him? They’ll find him in a day and a half.”   
  
“Don’t worry about it,” the comforting boy said easily, while their despairing friend growled. “That’s what we’ve got Jade working on; we’ll get it!” Upstairs, a minor explosion rocked the floor. The unruly-haired boy glowered. “Come on, you know how good she is at … science …”   
  
“Forgive my lack of faith.”   
  
“Oh, trust me,” the Texan replied, his expression equally doubtful, “you’re forgiven.”   
  
  
  
_**Nevada** _   
  
The only difference between this cell and the last one was the mattress. The last mattress had been more comfortable, he decided. It hadn’t been the dumb styrofoam egg crates - maybe that memory foam bullshit? He couldn’t remember, not really. Which was, he was certain, total bullshit, because a lot of the only things he remembered were from the last place.   
  
Well, that wasn’t true. But it was too much fucking energy to remember anything before that. There was such a lot of it, after all.   
  
There was a metallic shriek, and a panel at the bottom of the door slid open, to allow a tray of food in. The prisoner stared at it, uncomprehending. Eventually, the guard dropped it to the floor and slid the panel shut once again. ‘ Food ,’ the prisoner thought, eye fixed on the tray. ‘ I oughta eat that or somethin’ .’ Instead, he went to sleep.   
  
When he woke up, the food was cold, but his mind was, at least, a little clearer. Not much, admittedly; they were drugging him more liberally now, and it was leaving him too confused and exhausted to bother much with thinking. That was alright: he’d never thought about things too much before, anyway.   
  
Slowly, with enough caution to avoid falling down, he climbed off the cot and walked to the tray, leaning against the wall the entire way. It wasn’t far - only a couple steps - but he was so addled that each movement had to be taken with deliberate care. Walking had been hard enough when he couldn’t really feel his feet; never mind now that he was drugged up. Once he was close enough he slid to the floor, grateful, and started picking at the tray’s contents. Same old shit, different day. It tasted fucking awful, just like always.   
  
He was halfway through the second piece of chicken before he realized that the terrible taste was not the normal half-burnt tang. Dammit. He laid the chicken aside, and leaned back against the wall as the first wave of sedation washed over him. The paralytics would be next, he figured; that was usually how it went.   
  
If he wasn’t so fucking stupid, he chided himself, he’d just stop eating altogether. Oh well. They’d probably just dart him anyway.   
  
It wasn’t long before the two burly guards came in and scooped him up, tethering him to a gurney for the ride to … wherever they were going. He wasn’t sure: this place was new. Maybe an interview room, he thought, hopeful. Interviews were stupid bullshit, but they were better than the other option. Of course, they didn’t usually paralyze him for interviews, either, so it was probably just false hope.   
  
The drugs were still kicking in, not quite at their peak, so he risked a little speech, around the mouth guard. He was probably drooling, and he was fairly certain that he was pretty fucking garbled, but they seemed to understand him fine, responding with a nod. He sighed. Operating suite, he’d asked. Figured.   
  
By the time they’d arrived, and slid him off the gurney and onto the table, the meds had finally beat him out. He was awake - barely, but still awake - and immobile, strapped onto the table like he might suddenly find the energy or the coordination to tear himself free. Not likely, he thought, even as they draped his right shoulder and started peeling back the carapace plate. He didn’t scream anymore; they never stopped, anyway, and it was a waste of whatever energy he had. Might as well save it for later, in case they got sloppy, and forgot to tie him down.   
  
He doubted he’d get far, but it was worth trying. It was always worth trying. Maybe one of these days he’d actually slip out, or these graveyard stuffers’d let him go. It wasn’t like they were learning anything from him anyway, he figured.   
  
“Incision to right axilla shows typical nerve fibers and muscle groups,” the surgeon dictated, prodding at the exposed musculature. “No atrophy or foreign technology noted. Musculature warps proximal to limb base, pattern is typical to that seen in amputation.” The prisoner grimaced as the scalpel sliced harder into his shoulder, along the fake arm and toward where he was fairly certain the remains of his shoulder bones were. “Bone structure ends at limb base, as expected; it appears to have been fused with a support stem contained within the robotic arm. Evidence of innervation still absent.”   
  
The prisoner listened a little; of course they weren’t gonna find a way the robot arm worked - were they fucking idiots or something? It just  worked . He was a fucking character in a video game, he thought; things didn’t have to have some kind of explanation to work.   
  
The surgeon started dissecting through the muscles, searching for the nerves, and the prisoner whined, before letting himself slide into unconsciousness.   
  
-   
  
He woke up when someone brushed his face. His cheek, really: a place where the strap for the mouth guard ought to have been. He let his eye flicker on, hazy and low-power, just enough to see the person sitting across from him. Oh, her. The doctor. Well, at least she was a familiar face.   
  
“Good afternoon,” she said.   
  
He licked his lips and worked his jaw. “Is it?” he finally managed to croak, half-drooling. She smiled.   
  
“I suppose that depends on who you ask.” She squared up a sheaf of papers in front of herself. “I’d like to ask you some questions, and I’d like you to answer them. If I could direct your attention to your shoulder -” he looked. It was stitched up and raw and swollen, the chitin plate gone. And there were electrodes on it, those too. “If you do not answer willingly, we can compel you to answer. Understood?”   
  
He nodded. “Yeah, on it.”   
  
She smiled. “Very good. Alright, begin log. SCP-1383, please explain your species.”   
  
Talk fast, he thought. Talk soon, or they’ll shock you. Not that he over-minded getting shocked anymore, but he was mostly tired, and he wanted to get this over with so he could go back to his fucking cell and fall asleep on his fucking uncomfortable mattress, and wait for the drugs to wear off. “‘M a carapace,” he mumbled. “S’a … we’re like … I dunno,” he concluded. “‘M confused.”   
  
“What are carapaces?”   
  
“The shell bits,” he answered, dully. “That you fuckers keep rippin’ off.”   
  
“But it’s also the name of your species, correct?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
She nodded. “Where do carapaces come from?”   
  
“Derse. An’ Prospit.”   
  
“Are those countries?”   
  
He shook his head. “They’re moons.”   
  
“What do they orbit?”   
  
“Planet called Skaia.” He reached for his injured shoulder, but the handcuff around his opposite wrist didn’t allow him to get far. “M’shoulder hurts.”   
  
“It will heal.” She turned a page. “Tell me about Skaia.”   
  
He thought about it for a second, making sure to let his mouth work a little while he did so. If they thought he was gonna talk, he figured, they might not shock him. “S’big an’ blue. Got black an’ white squares on it. Real nice, I guess.”   
  
“Did you ever go to Skaia?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
“I was an Archagent,” he explained, tiredly. He was sure he’d been through it all before, but maybe not; everything was too foggy. “I stayed on Derse. Skaia was where the graveyard stuffers fought over all that bullshit.”   
  
She nodded. “So the planet was a battlefield?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
She consulted her notes. “You said it was covered in black and white squares - like a chessboard?”   
  
“It was a chessboard.”   
  
She frowned, her eyes narrowing. “Was the battle fought like a game of chess?”   
  
“Not really. But carapaces’re like chesspieces.” He went to gesture, and the shackles rattled. “Gotta do everything the fuckin’ Queen says, and try to protect the dumbass king.”   
  
She scribbled something down, and the prisoner slumped forward in his chair, his eye flickering. “C’n I go?” he asked, drowsy. “M’tired, I -”   
  
“When we’re finished. Elaborate on what you said about being like chesspieces. Do you have roles like chesspieces do?”   
  
He shuddered, involuntarily. He was so  tired. “Huh?”   
  
“You mentioned Kings and Queens - are there also rooks and knights and bishops and pawns?”   
  
He watched her, bleary-eyed. “I guess so?” He couldn’t really remember - there must have been, right? It was like chess, there had to be other pieces besides kings, queens and pawns …   
  
“And as Archagent, which were you?”   
  
“I was Archagent,” he answered.   
  
“Yes, but which piece were you?”   
  
“Archagent.”   
  
She scowled. “Were you a rook, a bishop, a knight or a pawn?”   
  
“I wasn’ a fuckin’ pawn,” he snarled, as vehemently as he could manage. “I was ‘n … I wasn’t … I was Archagent.”   
  
She glanced over her shoulder, to another man in a white lab coat. He nodded, and pressed a button, sending a jolt of pain through the prisoner. He grit his teeth and slumped forward in his bonds, limp and panting once the shock was through. “I urge you to reconsider your answer.”   
  
“I was Archagent,” he mumbled. “Not a pawn …” he started panicking, even as he slipped out of consciousness. Stay together, don’t let them shock you, stay awake, stay alive. “Archagen’, not a pawn,” he repeated, like a mantra. “Archagen’ Jack Noir, everyone listened ‘cept Dig …” he trailed off, mumbling nonsense frantically, in an attempt to stave off another shock, until his eye shut off, and he blacked out.


End file.
